The Swing
by meddie01
Summary: Come night, they came to terms with the changes. HarryDraco, postHBP.


**The Swing**

Tonight the crumpled leaves on the road were dry; their edges were shining in the light of the lamp posts. It was sometime after dusk. Harry felt engulfed in cold, wasted romanticism – the moon, shinier than a new coin, the gold foliage trembling above him, their shadows, black and oblong, vacillating, scheming in the secrecy of the road. Harry's hands were freezing. He started to rub them and placed them inside his pockets. The headquarters were lost in the distance they'd walked, in the dark blue skies and withered greens that tangled around.

_Why do you need to attack people? Why can't you keep your mouth shut?_

The silence irked him. It was unpleasant, ominous even, bringing closer whatever shady silhouettes might have been lurking out there. It was a lonely, misty place, that forest, with deserted glades full of brambles and dead leaves, with a brook rippling incessantly like the blood beneath frail skin. Birds passed cawing through the blackened foliage, whispering of how vulnerable they both were, like hare on the run, under that burdensome, murky sky.

He kept thinking, days like these, that Draco had come with the package, delivered in the days when _all of them_, normal and Muggle had figured out something was killing them in their sleep. Maybe it still was the initial shock. Things had been happening so fast that the past months were a blur and the Order had begun acting quickly and precisely, second thoughts cast aside. In the process, Harry had lost belief in his theory that good magic and bad magic should never mix… Some time ago everything had been so easy…

It wasn't how he'd seen himself, innocent and happy and with Ginny in an everlasting Hogwarts décor. No, real life came with real-life _upsides_: the attainment of cutting sarcasm, a refuge in the middle of nowhere, and Malfoy. What would his parents think of him now? If they knew the things he'd be doing to try to win the war and... His hands were still cold. Ginny…

_I can't. I can't, Harry! You know that I can't help that!_

He cast a glance toward Draco and felt the anger burgeoning again, irking him to get rid of the source. Good memories came into his head, accompanied by the bad ones, and it was all Draco… all Draco walking aimlessly through the leaf heaps, with his eyes empty, downcast. Harry wondered if he also walked that way. He felt tired.

_But you know that I don't want to corner you anymore, and laugh at you like in some stupid children's game? You know that, don't you?_

_Yeah. I know._

It had been raining so heavily that time about a week ago, when it had been their day off. It had been a terrible time to venture onto these lands, with crows loitering on black branches dripping with water and tangled in garlands of withering leaves shining yellow and wet.

"_Earl Gray…" Draco whispers in his ear, licking his bottom lip, and they throw each other into a pile of wet leaves, messing around, the cold rain lashing against their cheeks. _

_Draco's hair and skin are too pale, in such contrast with the dark grass and the mud in which they lay that he looks like a helpless offering to some temperamental god. Harry's lips find a place on his cold, wet cheekbone to settle, his hands sneaking beneath Draco's sodden, once-white shirt. _

"_Can tonight be our anniversary?" Draco murmurs, tangling his arms around him like a wet, writhing Devil's snare._

"_No, it's only been eight months…"_

"_Seven months." Harry feels wet, incredible kisses on his neck. "Thirteen days." Draco curls beneath him, shivering. "And some hours."_

"_Twenty-three, huh? We've started this—"_

"_Madness."_

"_Heh. About midnight--"_

"_In old Lupin's flat."_

Harry smiled tiredly at the memory, filled by the vague feeling of having broken something which wouldn't look like before after he'd mended it. He pressed his nails into his palms and let his eyes wander.

_It's me, mum,_

_the same creature_

_squeezed out of ancient demons and_

_out of God,_

_brought up to howl_

_the leaven history_

_dementia._

It just goes on and on and on… and there's nothing I can do to solve it. Doing the manicure and pretending all these things aren't happening around you won't help either, no matter what that Parvati seems to think! It's just incredibly, incredibly wrong and sometimes I think I stumbled into a nightmare.

_Ask someone else to go in your place! You don't look so good, really._

No. It's the only quiet night around here because Harry and Draco Malfoy have taken their issues to stroll through the woods. They aren't getting only on my nerves, no. Two weeks ago, it was Hannah who threw a bucketful of bubotuber pus on them because she'd been at the hospital for eight hours and Malfoy wouldn't shut up.

_No. I have to, Suzie._

There's no one around now either. Seems like St. Mungo's is snatching half of our lives away. This time…it isn't as bad as it was in Leicester. The blackened area isn't bigger than a Quidditch pitch, and there aren't people all over the place, dirty and screaming, clutching at their things or at their children, or digging through rubble with bare hands and calling for someone they'd lost.

I don't want to be an Auror if I have to see that every day. However, it's either that or a Healer, because who the hell would need a journalist right now? There's not much space left for strengthening the morale in the Prophet with five attacks having gone on the day before; there's not much space on the floors of St. Mungo's either, with the makeshift mattresses and the lack of medicine.

It's my day off. I wonder what Neville's doing right now; probably still brewing potions for those foreign tourists bit by giant snakes.

_It's just a few hours, it's no big deal. Those two still brooding? You get to give me a full report when I come back. It's bloody unbelievable!_

It's gloomy. I'm alone and hate it. I just wish… hell, I wish many things. Something small, then. Someone to come home sooner. Yeah, that would do. I'm off to make a sandwich now.

The last words in the notebook were in a rushed, careless scrawl. Parvati considered whether or not to read the next entry; the first one had caught her eyes by having her name in the first sentence. Eh… if she wasn't going to respect other's property, at least she should finish what she had begun. Susan Bones seemed to have a lot of free time to write stuff about other people. _Rita Skeeter in the making_… she mumbled under her breath. Parvati felt more amused than upset. Intrigued. This journal… it was like oriental spices compared to the common dish her life had become. The routine, the trainings, had brought too much focus on the skill of staying alive. She'd manage, but it wasn't okay, what with Padma gone to India with their mum; she missed her a lot. It used to be so good to stay awake 'till midnight and talk about things. Padma… she had always wanted to travel, to visit the old temples and the greenish stone statues of Buddha and question them about the ways of the world.

There were a few entries that had been written rather angrily and, judging by the semblance between the ink used and the thickness of the writing, shortly after the first. Interpretation of written text had been Parvati's forte in Divination. She wasn't in the mood at the moment though, because things like that took time for the Inner Eye to gain its focus, and Parvati wasn't keen on being caught. If only she had the Professor's gift! If only she could see what would happen and alert everybody… But there just wasn't time for working the Inner Eye, or for Witch's Weekly, or for all those things that make a girl feel good, like make-up or shopping. Sighing, she returned to read events that at least belonged to the past and wouldn't harm anyone.

It felt like part of her thoughts were recorded there, a different version of them. _Curious like a cat_, people had called Parvati time and again, and she had to admit that they were right. And so was Susan. Nail polish and the daily cruelty of the news reports were not a good mix.

Tonight Harry and Draco are off having one of their usual walks. They often go strolling on empty roads, or to have a drink in a busy inn, cramped in some booth in the back, so that amidst the clatter no one notices they're there. Draco would heave a knee to his chest with the other leg splayed nonchalantly on one side of the u-shaped couch, scowling absently to his drink. Harry would be to his left, playing with the beer bottle.

However, there are times that, when I'm around them, I get this feeling like I've stumbled upon a pirates' secret hiding place, because they seem so very different from their usual selves. Not shuttered anymore, I'd say, palm reaching on the other's cheek and wide eyes and whisperings in-between the beer pints.

Neville says that it's normal. That when things change from bad to worse, you cling to the ones you care for the most like ivy to a gnarled tree.

_Shh… It wasn't real. You want more chocolate?_

But none of us can really fathom when Harry had started to care for Malfoy.

During meals it's either Draco's plate suddenly turning purple, or Fred and George – when they're around -discovering that their newest, almost-finished project had disappeared without a trace, or Zacharias, cutting in for some petty comment about Draco and Harry, or Draco spoiling Harry's chat with his friends or finding a victim around the table when he gets tired of sulking in his corner.

We all used to laugh at first but now it's getting really old, like a stupid tradition you hate and you have to keep.

_Get your chips everyone, here they go again!_

_I swear I liked them better when they were busy with their tonsil-tennis._

When Draco spends time hovering in front of the windows, casting Harry a quick glance now and then, and Harry takes refuge to someplace crowded, with us, Ron Weasley, Hermione, with no qualms in taking part in Malfoy-bashing, we figure out that they have problems. Even though neither apologizes forthright, there comes the time when Draco starts looking thinner and under the weather and it is then that Harry seeks him and they make peace.

It may all start when Malfoy sees Ginny Weasley talking to Harry. In this situation, he bangs a door and spits some foul phrases, he retreats someplace private, and Harry scowls.

_I'm tired of his stupid mood swings. _

_I wish everything would just keep being okay._

It's all dark outside. Lamp posts and thickets and the vague shapes of hills swallowed by fog. The sill is cold. Neville's plants project ominous shadows on the glass.

They might be making up right now. Shedding lairs like the temperamental Danish onions we keep on the balcony, where the air is crisp; feeling skin tremble under fingertips and claiming mouths.

If I fall asleep right now… It's so cold in here and there's another nightmare of lifelessness lurking in the air, one of limbs emerging out of wreckage. I know that it could be so much worse but…

I'll be keeping the lights on.

After dusk, Malfoy might sit on the sill, daring the sough of the branches. I've asked myself too, many times, if there are strangers slain out there in the dark just as I'm looking, but you can only see the bronze on the lamp posts and the fog that renders you alone. Taking fag after fag, with his hand clenched in Harry's, Malfoy would see the golden spots in the hazy, depleted panoplies, like I do now.

On one side of the road rose the ivy-clad statue of a woman, hidden behind brier bushes and wearing numerous cracks that disfigured her stone face.

Upon glancing that way, Harry's eyes met Draco's. Grey and pale, they looked delicate in the moonlight and somehow still managed to pose silent questions and accusations.

"_You're going to change your mind one day, Potter, and I don't want to stick around and wait for that to happen."_

_They hide in that patch of grass behind the statue, sheltered by the thick panoplies, to escape the merciless sunrays and the privy eyes of those who live at the safe house. The ancient trees raised their gnarled branches high in the air. There's a smell of summer and grass, and Harry tangles his arms around Draco's middle, trying to ignore the ugly sight of the mark on his forearm. Draco's breath tickles his ear as he murmurs, and Harry can't get enough of him, and at the same time doesn't know how to patch things up without making promises:_

"_Don't worry, Malfoy," he ends up saying. "I'm not planning on it." _

Behind the statue there was a decayed path leading to the ruins of an old mansion. Hermione called the woman "Aphrodite" and didn't believe Harry when he told her there was something magical about that place.

I think I found what I was – unconsciously - looking for.

I don't have the same as they have though. Theirs is a furious sort of love with both of them as stubborn and proud as they come, and in the confusion following Dumbledore's death, they were thrown in there and forced to work together. We don't get them, most of the time. But maybe it's all simple, really. Because I understand it, what it's like to order your life after this _search_, and, in Harry's case, it was severe: the need for someone to share a life and a room, emotional weakness blended with teenage hormones, making him crave loving somebody, sometimes, and the risk of it is settling with a simulation of love that can easily bring more hurt than comfort – no wonder his friends were worried, and shocked, and _Harry have you lost your mind!_ – but Malfoy seems to do the trick for him.

In the beginning they just glared and traded courtesies of dead family and every weakness they could possibly find. I was curious, and so were Ernie and Hannah, but we got bored very fast of being as unpleasant to the grim, skinny Slytherin as he was to us. But Harry has always been special.

Fights easily developed into angry smashing of lips against each other in a messy way; afterwards, Harry, whose policy seems to be never having to regret anything, would muse over what he'd just done with a deep feeling of need mixed with loathing of Malfoy's personality, and wonder whether Malfoy felt the same too. On his part, Malfoy still had his vault of scathing, unnecessary comments, which he didn't even try to make funny anymore, as if it was all clear that the time for playing games had long ended. It had been an evolution from the "Potter Stinks" badges to the more hurtful "Weasley is Our King" to the serious deeds, like Harry's broken nose that horrible year.

Malfoy is quieter now, except when he opens his mouth to spit venom at the unlucky fellow in his proximity, but he doesn't try to impose himself on us as ostentatiously as before. The elders – Mrs. Weasley, and Professor Lupin, and Moody – think he's maturing, meaning perhaps that others' opinions aren't so important for him anymore. I remember that it was as if he was performing in front of spectators to be won over, as if he had an arena around him and he was a magician among peasants, so damn proud of his flick of the wand.

He still doesn't accept that Hermione Granger is a witch too.

_You expect me to work with those? I'd have better conversations with African cabbages._

Or that Hufflepuffs can even do magic.

Malfoy had been found in some shady hide-out in some small, unworthy-to-be-shown-on-the-map village in Scotland, and since then his tasks have included helping with the research. It's the concealment of our Order that is so important, because no one wants another black hole where this house stands. There are plenty of tomb stones in the village graveyard without our bones joining their ranks. For Malfoy, this entails long hours spent ignoring Hermione Granger in the library (_Malfoy? Did you take that book I was reading?; Malfoy! Malfoy! I'm talking to you!_), as he is crafty and could think of one-thousand-and-one ways of breaking the protection system. Funny how Tonks thought that this made him a valid choice for the job.

But despite all this, he and Harry have their agreement, which means holding each other in the long, cold nights when owls pop through the windows of the living room bringing fresh, unwelcome news. News that seeps quickly through the already cold rooms, with agitated Order members trying to figure out if the bad news was true – usually confirmed first thing in the morning in the Prophet – and with less-important members kept, intentionally or not, in the dark. It's infuriating for everyone, more for Draco, because he keeps implying that he hates being here, than for Harry, who gets this far-off look in his eyes and plays with his wand in his fingers. We all go to him if something's wrong with our shields or jinxes, we ask him what's going on when no one tells us a thing, we make sure he's all right even when we could be better, because I don't know what we'd do if Harry weren't here.

I had one of those _talks_ with Neville once – we were in a waiting room in St. Mungo's. When the time comes, we'll be there for him till the end. There's no life to what we're living in this cage of a house. There's no life out there either - we'd never survive on our own. If Harry can fight and make it better, then so can we, and this decision is ours alone to take. There are no parents left to tuck us in our beds; it's our turn now and we'll do all that we can. I just pray it will be enough.

One day we'll both be free – truly free - and life will be something new every day, _something good_.

Harry continued walking alongside Draco, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. The Slytherin was pale and had a certain fragility to him, with the angular set of his jaw and the light hair framing his face. Ever since he'd seen them, Harry had always thought of Draco as a replica of his parents. The essence had always been there – maybe never the same confidence and power of persuasion his_ Father_ had, maybe never Narcissa's grace and aloofness, but hadn't Draco always laughed maliciously whenever he found someone's weak spot? Neville was clumsy, the Weasleys were poor, Hagrid had a thousand qualities except he was a horrid teacher, Hermione's parents weren't able to do magic, and he – Harry – didn't have them anymore. And Draco had never known to put himself in other people's shoes.

Now that they shared a room it often happened that their things got mixed together because neither was particularly tidy. Harry had photos of himself as a baby and photos of his mum snatched from Aunt Petunia's attic as well as Hagrid's album that he treasured, but there was a high chance that he'd come across photos that belonged to Draco rather than to himself in that messy room of theirs – and the Malfoys were in almost every one. Lucius smirking patronizingly with a hand held with artificial grace on the shoulder of a beaver-like ten-year old Draco, Narcissa jumping out of her frame because the tiny Draco in the photo kept spilling marmalade on her robes…

Harry held the secret pride that his own parents had been _better_. He knew that Draco wouldn't grow to be another Lucius. And yet…

"Where are we going, _Harry_?" Draco hissed suddenly, shaking him out of his reverie. Harry blinked at him.

"_Where _are you _leading_ me?" he continued, leering. "Or are we just enjoying each other's com--?"

"Deep in the forest to kill you." Harry replied shortly, annoyed by his mocking tone. "Why? Is there some other place you ought to be right now?"

"No, there isn't." Draco exhaled dramatically, and, rushing his steps, muttered something similar to _…complete waste of time!_ A bevy of owls flew hooting over their heads, and Harry craned his neck to see them disappear on their way to the safe house.

He felt kind of lost as he stood there, watching Draco distance himself, and a wave of bitterness overpowered him.

They had had even more spectacular fall-outs before.

"_Your father's an idiot!" Harry yells, because he's sick and tired of Malfoy refusing to eat and come out of his room over that bastard. He finds him brooding in the attic this time, staring for the millionth time at the old photos._

"_Don't talk about—" _

_Draco's reaction is immediate and expected. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes wide and murderous, but Harry's too far gone now to care. How can Draco defend that man no matter what he does, even though he knows perfectly well what Lucius is capable of?_

"_He still clings to Voldemort even though the Dark Lord wants him dead." _

_He can't stand hearing Draco defend Lucius because every time all he sees is that graveyard and memories of trying to duel that horrible creature while the Death Eaters were laughing viciously and Cedric's body lay slumped in the dirty grass in the distance._

"_That's not true… I know, he messed up at the ministry, but he was always—" _

_He takes step after step in Draco's direction, and he is aware, sort of, that he is waving his fists and yelling in earnest right now, but he has to get this out of his chest before it chokes him._

"_Voldemort hates him because he lost a part of his soul. Your father gave Ginny the diary that awakened the monster in the school. It destroyed his soul!" _

"_No…" Draco falters and Harry understands, in the back of his mind that it must be a shock for him, but on the other hand he's surprised Lucius Malfoy didn't brag to his son about his evil plot and that the two didn't share a cosy chat over those gullible, worthless Weasleys and what bolt from the blue they'd have. (**Oh Potter, did you find yourself a girlfriend?**) But Malfoy had been a fool all along and now he's at Voldemort's mercy. _

"_He wants him dead. He doesn't care!"_

"_You liar! I hate you, you liar! He wouldn't--" Draco cries from the corner of the room where Harry has pushed him, and hits him in the chest to get away. His face is bright pink and he's shaking all over._

"_That's exactly what happened, but you've always been too blind to see it!" Harry hisses viciously. _

"_Shut up!" _

"_He sent you to fail, he sent you to die just to punish him, don't you see?" Harry presses, making sure Draco hears clearly every single word. Draco's eyes are wide and scared and he looks like a trapped deer. His hands are clenched in Harry's shirt and he yanks desperately, as though unsure whether to pull closer or to push him away._

"_No! No-no-no… Harry…. No, you're only saying this to get back on me, aren't you? You hate me and you like it when... But it worked and I didn't die and none of you thought I could do it! How does that make you feel!" the pale boy explodes with a sob, and it is then that Harry stills._

_Draco scares him this time. He thinks he's never seen him so undone and he's very scared of what he's done to him. For a few instants, it had been so gratifying to see Draco suffer, to make him pay for all those mean things he'd done before. That rush of power humbles him. Things have changed and he's not that self-righteous kid anymore._

"_I'm happy you didn't die. I'm happy you couldn't kill him," he whispers earnestly for Draco to hear, and he twines his fingers with his. He flinches at first but Harry persists, like he'd done at the beginning. Trust is such an easy wall to breach through… fragile like the spider webs Draco has torn in this disused corner of the attic. Harry's heart beats so fast in his chest and Draco is too shattered not to melt in his embrace and nod his head at the soothing nonsense Harry murmurs, repentantly, in his ear._

They had been tentative and shy ever since when they brought up the subject of Dumbledore and Draco's parents. Harry knew it was selfish, but he was glad they weren't around. Both of them were alone, as it was, and they were free to act however they wanted.

However, as he hurried now to keep up with Draco, he couldn't help but remember that void, that loneliness that had haunted them both in Lupin's old house that time when they had got together. The way they both had pretended to be bold and to need no one, whereas what they had was such comfort time and again for both.

The first times he'd touched Draco were memories that meant a lot to Harry but in comparison to them the more recent events were far more vivid, an agonising burn in his chest, adding to the simmering liquid of emotions he was feeling. Ginny's image appeared in his mind and Harry shook his head tiredly and clenched his teeth. He resumed walking a few steps behind Draco's slender silhouette, among the golden trees in the fog.

The first time I saw Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy kiss was after they came back from hiding at Professor Lupin's. There had been rumours of an attack upon St. Mungo's then, and everyone went ballistic. The shock the two gave us all was a bonus.

Mrs. Weasley, Ron's mum, commented once about Harry's choices – _But Harry, dear, he's a boy! And he's… well… **that** boy! Why would you be with him?_ Harry regretted his reply once the words came out of his mouth – "Why get a decent person killed?" – because a distressful silence seeped in the room, with both of them thinking of Ginny and of poor-little-ferret-Malfoy and of the difference between the two; happily, Ginny was her merry busy self, despite their break-up. Half a minute later, Malfoy came into the kitchen with a sour, white face, and asked Mrs. Weasley in a scornful voice whether or not she had made something to eat. Being positive that Malfoy had heard all their exchange _hadn't stopped Harry from putting him in his place for being rude. (I don't think any of us would want to serve you even if you asked nicely.)_

There's this vendetta going on, one which Neville and I watch like a soap-opera lately. Who's the better choice for Harry's partner: lively, outgoing and blatantly feminine Ginny M Weasley, or high-maintenance, pointy and cynical Dray-coo Malfoooy! Who is Harry going to pick?

All this and more in the next episode of "The Passionate Life of Harry Potter - Boy-Who-Lived".

Take tonight for instance.

Boy-Who-Lived had just returned from what had mostly been a tiresome drill about the countless ways one should be able to dodge poison clouds and magical storms on a broomstick, only to find an angry Ginny Weasley throwing a bundle of rags at his feet in a blatant display of melodrama. Her Quidditch gear had disappeared without a trace, and Aunt Muriel's wedding dress from the chest in the attic had just sprouted a red and gold sleeve, while Draco Malfoy had appeared in a doorway, taken a long look at the scene, and disappeared very fast inside when Harry's eyes had locked with his.

A bowl of popcorn is all we need, really, and Harry has long made his choice, just that some can't seem to get it through their thick skulls. The main rule for soap-operas is that 99 are bad.

Hermione once asked Harry if he liked Malfoy, a not-so-subtle rephrasing of _"What are you thinking, Harry? Malfoy! That prick?"_ It was obvious that Harry hated the question, too close to home for his liking, but he didn't try to dodge it: _Yeah. I'm attracted to him. I guess I like him._ Hermione didn't press the matter; that was what she was asking, after all. It's strange that they and Ron still have that complicity of theirs, even though a double date is surely not in the cards.

Malfoy comes as a package, in the end, with the good and the bad, and we'll be leaving _to Harry_ the task of digging for the qualities. He's the one to trigger the strongest reactions in him, after all. Their views are so different but they really are alike, so that their personalities often clash. Like that Halloween.

There had been tiny, bespectacled pumpkins shining green on the shelves, and Draco's gift for Harry had been left playing in there to the wide-open windows; he'd taken for him a compilation with the best most recent songs of wizard music bands, Harry being completely alien to that field. The room had got colder than outside that night, with Draco heaven-knows-where and Harry gone to watch with his housemates a Quidditch match on the wireless.

Those days they still let us wander around the countryside and have barbecues near the brook. Those days I didn't know every single hallway in St. Mungo's and Neville didn't wake up horrified of hollow eyes. We had a nice Halloween and our favourite couple in the whole world did what they do best.

_It's not surprising for a Muggle like you; if you spend more time with that loser, Thomas, you'll start asking what the use of that swishy stick you keep in your pocket is._

Harry didn't understand Draco's increased hostility towards Seamus, Dean, Ron and Neville, nor the existence of pumpkin remains on their carpet, but he didn't give much importance to the fact, despite Draco's nasty reply to his _"I like what you've done with the place. I almost forgot it's Halloween." _

My guess is that Harry came across the last one of those pumpkins, which had been angrily zigzagged on the forehead with a knife and shunned in Fred and George's storage boxes. Weeks later, after a fight leaving Harry with large bruises on the arm and Draco with scratches from where the edges of the bookcase had pressed into his back, Harry yelled at Draco: _"Why the hell didn't you tell me what you wanted? Was I supposed to read your thoughts?"_ at which Draco shrugged and sneered a _"No, Potter, you can't use Legilimancy for the life of you."_ Harry had gone white, because that _you_ spoke of Sirius, spoke of Snape and of Voldemort himself.

Harry hates that Draco hurts Ron and Hermione to get his attention. Even Fred and George had a problem with that. (_Go get us rid of Malfoy; the git's mouth won't shut up until you do something about that, mate, so, please, oh please, be a good fellow and save us all.)_ They have a problem with all that means Malfoy, though, because we had to come to the rescue when they put a spell on the stairs to push Malfoy down on his nose. Harry helped him fix his nose, but he doesn't like Draco's _baggage_ either, so they avoid talking about serious stuff.

It's not a fairytale, see, and one might bring into the mix a number of number of tombstones, and the other a strong fear of the dark, or a toad lost in a brook, or a mark trapping him in a twisted fate designed by some twisted god with a twisted sense of humour, and if you don't use all you've got in your reach to make foundations, then you're left alone, with nothing to fight or defend, nothing to give you motivation. And it sure feels good to have _something_ there for you, something good.

The two of them have already been dating for months – the quest for Horcruxes in full fling and the war looming over our heads, with all the victims and the foul things that stem from it, so they've sort of developed a truce. Harry has found out less about Malfoy than the blond has about him, because Harry doesn't consider his childhood a classified subject and such, while Malfoy would spit something nasty each time anyone does as much as mention his relationship with his father or that Lucius Malfoy – still in Azkaban – refuses to reply to any of his letters. Professor Lupin has been the one to deliver them and so Harry knows that Malfoy – Lucius - has refused to scribble as much as a "Take care, son" on a piece of parchment or at least send a message through Lupin. From what I heard, he rejects his family, his traitorous family, and clings to his loyalty to Voldemort. Those days Malfoy – Draco – didn't come out of his room much, and Harry came to hold him silently on their bed, hands lost in his hair.

The rest of us – we kept out. Mostly.

"_I didn't know what he did, Harry… But there's got to be a reason for— No, look… You don't know what he's really like… how he is with me and Mother…_

Harry's only reaction was to snort at Malfoy's outrageous words. I felt disappointed with him and angry with Malfoy, so I barged into the room holding haphazardly the jug of pumpkin juice that Mrs. Weasley had asked me to bring them.

"Shut up!" I yelled at them. "He killed so many people. I don't care how he was with you."

And then I put the jug onto a table and slammed the door on my way out.

Malfoy and I didn't address each other for more than two weeks since then. I don't feel particularly proud of my outburst, but I couldn't stand to hear him tell tales about the virtues of a Death Eater. Ignore my insensitivity. I know he's as good as an orphan now, but I've been one all my life. It's an exchange, isn't it? He has Harry.

I get self-centred at times when I see someone not knowing to handle problems I've dealt with all my life. He'll get used to it and I don't want to be faking concern if I don't feel that way. Harry's there to make things easier the same way Neville's been by my side when I finally brought myself to bring flowers to _their_ graves, the very same way I wanted to go and see Neville's parents. I felt helpless that day, when I watched him as he went and talked to them, gathered his mum's wrappers, and kissed her on the cheek before we left. She didn't answer when he asked her if he should leave the lights on, and there was a flicker of despair on his face – the tell-tale sign of shattered hopes.

I wish I weren't like this, but there are times when I wish all the evil things in the world happened to certain people. Draco Malfoy isn't on that list.

I don't hold any grudge against him. He's not so bad if you get to know him, I guess. Neville and Harry got Malfoy and I to talk to each other when they organized a double-date kind of picnic, and then they went off fishing and left Malfoy and I to our own devices. So, after two hours passed in silence, we found ourselves a topic to tap: how idiotic and immature our boyfriends could be. Yes, yes… I know who the immature one really was, but all's well that end well, right?

Harry has found out with the passing months that Malfoy likes drinking must, that he had a twin brother who died at his birth and that one of his far relatives had been a stuntman at a Wizards' circus.

_He wasn't a clown per se, Potter! Grandfather used to say he had a _free spirit

I wonder what they are doing right now. Coming home, maybe. It's strange that I bother so much thinking about them, but, then again, Neville isn't here yet, is he? They're like children now, when you see things from afar, and you feel overwhelmed by this, this urge to cosset them because they're so small and frail and good for each other.

It's even stranger how you never give a thought about death until you see it everywhere and you feel like there's little more than a sheet of skin protecting the vital parts of your body.

Neville likes telling stories when it's late and the eyelids fall dutifully over blurry darkness, and skin, and crinkles of blankets. He tells how Harry has sought his rival all over Hogwarts to discover his plots. He remembers being told of a first meeting in a clothes shop, when there were lines so clearly drawn between who does good and who is evil. Now it's all hazy, isn't it?

_Suzie? Are you here?_

I… yes. He's come home, he's finally come home. I'll be shutting up now.

I still have milk glasses and sandwiches and if everything goes as planned I'll be getting seven sickles, because I'm sure those impossible two will make up tonight. It wasn't as grave as Neville put it, this time.

Auntie would be happy. Now let me make for the fireplace.

_and with something more_

_to defend_

_and love_

This time it had happened like it always did – Ginny Bloody Weasley -, to Harry's growing frustration, but he'd let it pass, because he hated having to spend his morning patching things up. They could be intimate even when holding resentment against each other and it was often the case, long nights of cuddling in front of the hearth in their room, when thoughts of each other's mistreatment and flaws made them avoid having conversations and looking each other in the eye.

And now they were through the forest.

Harry put his hand on Draco's shoulder and closed the gap between them for a chaste kiss on his mouth; the closeness was always the same intoxicating need, despite the animosities. Draco stilled at first, and then joined the movement with methodical practice; his face was neutral when they continued their walk.

There was a playground at the end of the forest path; swings and slides rested deserted in the translucent light of moon and lamp posts. Draco stopped and looked indifferently and Harry could only watch him and be overcome by annoyance and a wish of not seeing Draco's sceptical face until it passed.

"What are we doing here? Swings, Harry? What are you, six years old?"

"And what are you, one hundred, Malfoy? Do you really have to jump at my throat at every single thing that comes out of my mouth?"

Draco stood silent for a few seconds, a stern expression, almost a scowl, on his face.

"Looks like I've lost the right to voice my opinion, since you lot keep me out of sheer pity in that fucking Order, and in your fucking bed."

"What?"

Harry's mind spun with unexpected velocity. Thoughts brought him the image of their bedroom and the idea of possible, future, real sexual activities. They clashed with yet another of Draco's vulnerabilities, which weren't so invisible, if one was on the lookout for them, but Harry had his own problems and too little free time.

"If you wanted to get in touch with the neglected inner child, maybe you should have seen a Muggle doctor and got your head checked instead of…"

It was one of those times when Harry was tired and hated trying to find the words to describe what he was thinking or feeling and trying to explore Draco's mind. The jibe about the Dursleys was low, but it didn't hurt - unlike any barb regarding Lucius' denial of his family that Harry could have said. It would have cooled the urge of hitting something – someone – but his newly gained ability of biting his tongue when needed came in handy.

There was that unpleasant silence between them again; the sort of silence that emphasises all the creepy sounds of the night, like the screeching of crows in the depleted foliage above them. Draco's face looked sharper than usual in the dim light; he was biting his bottom lip and focusing his eyes on an imaginary point to Harry's left.

"Nothing's okay with you, is it?" Harry began quietly, after a deep breath.

The water droplets shone in the moonlight. The thicket looked eerie with its shrubbery and wild creatures, huts and glades present out there around them, and a dark, chilly unknown that scared Draco but was merely unpleasant for Harry, who perceived it like a dare.

Draco ignored it and clenched his fists; he was with Harry and the hero – what a tantrum he'd throw whenever Draco called him that with exaggerated disdain – always had his undivided attention.

"I could have asked Ron or Hermione - or Ginny, but wouldn't that piss you off? – to come with me because I simply wanted, Draco—" Harry's voice had gotten harsher with anger "to swing in peace like a stupid, overgrown kid whose cousin's pals would keep him off the playground at five, but no, you couldn't let me be, could you?"

Harry's face was flushed now with cracking restraint and an anger that must have ignited from forgotten cinders of fights held other times. His eyes were cold and so was his voice, and the air, and everything, lately.

"Like you don't ask too much of me? Like I don't have to meet the standards of our beloved hero, every fucking day—"

Harry's fists made contact with the fabric of Draco's jacket; if the blond was startled, he didn't show it, except for a gasp when his back hit the bark of a massive tree.

"How the fuck can you—"

"I can! You want me to order around and you keep that Weasley trash with you and let her paw you like you were hers to paw! Who tastes better, _Harry_? Is the Boy-Who-Lived tired of his toys? Should we buy him a new one?"

His breath came like white smoke in the chill air. He looked tense and raw, his eyes too clear, and Harry didn't like what he saw in them.

"You. Pass. Every. Fucking. Limit. Every. Fucking. Time," he gnashed, mere inches from Draco's delicate skin behind the ear. "No wonder no one likes you, no wonder all of them are glad when you're in trouble and when they make you hurt, because you deserve it, Draco, you and your stupid fights and insults I've got so sick and tired of. I hate it, you know? I hate. It!"

"I know."

Harry was still panting next to him, so close, and that acceptance of facts made all the things he wanted to say next and most of his anger vanish from his mind. Draco's strangled words weren't apologetic, weren't obnoxious like they normally came. They just were there, accepting.

Harry bent forward and kissed him - feeling Malfoy's heat engulfing him as the blond captured him in a tight hug, holding his waist in a grasp as if afraid Harry would go away and leave him there. And the truth was that the thought had crossed Harry's mind, more than once, and tonight more insistent than most times.

Malfoy's lips were wet and soft, pliable under his; Harry's teeth punished, while he succeeded in getting his anger under control. Draco didn't complain. He never did about these types of things, although every other detail that Draco didn't like was thrown into Harry's face Every. Single. Day. Like Ginny's magazines, thrown carelessly on their nightstand – his and Harry's –, or Ron's disturbing presence in their room, _to hang out with Harry_.

Harry felt Draco's lower body respond to their embrace, a reaction that his own body matched. He was in a terrible need of Draco now, of his body, of his movement and tactfulness, because he did do inspired things whenever he was in a good mood and his mouth was shut.

Harry's kisses became light bites down Draco's neck, and into the collar of his jacket. Draco's tongue was active as well, triggering amazing, wet, hot sensations on Harry's neck.

"Come here," Harry said and led Draco in a mid-embrace to a swing where they both squeezed in, the lack of space causing them to press against each other. In the soft movement of the swing, they both continued touching, exploring, conscious that it was so easy to do something to ruin it all, frail as it was.

Draco lowered his head to rest on Harry's shoulder while their palms fumbled past the other's shirts, finding foreign, warm muscles and the rushed pulse of the heart. Harry was torn between the need of getting lost into Draco - the air suddenly _made _out of Draco - and venting the rage partially responsible for the speed with which his blood sprang through his veins. His hands found a compromise, holding Draco tight in place – thus avoiding any impulse of sending him face down in the dirt – and projecting on him what he was feeling, and it didn't pass long until the movement of hands, knees, mouths and heads slowed, the fire sustaining it burning out. Draco lay limp in Harry's arms, watching the iron slides coming closer and going away, with each swing.

"You still want to kick me off this thing?" he asked in a low, strange voice, and Harry wondered whether his movements had made his intentions so obvious.

"Nah. I got that under control."

Draco remained silent, shifting in his arms, and yes, Harry realized that the moment had passed and that the warmth inside him, telling him to take Draco into a fierce, friendly hug, and play with his tufts, had replaced the impulse of pulling those hairs as hard as he could.

"You understand now," he asked in an almost amused voice, "why I couldn't come here with Ron or Ginny or some Muggle shrink?"

"Yeah, yeah… you've had worse ideas than _this_, Potter."

Draco's tone was light; he hadn't, however, made any jibe about the Weasel and such, and Harry took a deep breath, as he had almost prepared himself for another argument.

"Just for the record," he told him, determined to do away with the spectre of yet another fight to leave a bad taste in his mouth, "what I said ten minutes ago, about you deserving… eh… the rubbish they throw at you… that's not true, you know that, and you've earned your place here. You're good at what you do."

"You think…?" Draco's head spun towards him; the compliment had come out of the blue - they never appreciated each other verbally, either of them.

"Mm-hm."

Harry bent his head towards the blond, briefly registering his widened eyes, and brushed his lips, twice, over Draco's. There was a moan that escaped Draco's lips – and warm breath dispersed into the crisp air - , and Harry hadn't felt so sated in a long time. The coolness of the autumn was welcome for him and Draco's warmth in his arms a desired burden. It was like after an especially relaxing bubble bath. All he wanted now was to walk home, hand in hand with Draco, and shut the world outside of their room with damp windows, and just be, there, together, under blankets.

He could almost feel Draco smiling absently next to him.

"Mother used to do this… push me in the swing we had in the gardens. It was a secluded corner, very much like here; I… loved those times when I sat there with her."

Harry felt awkward for a few seconds, because he didn't have memories with his parents like Draco did. Nonetheless, this meant it wasn't additionally hard for him to adjust to the state of affairs, what with one's parents suddenly really away. Then, he thought of Mrs. Weasley and her bossy manner of handling things, and a warm sensation settled in his stomach. He rubbed the blond's arms in response, and Draco, who had just been looking at him with a strange, guarded expression, exhaled, brought himself a little up and started plundering his mouth in a feverish kiss that woke inside Harry a new energy, a strange sort of thrill. In that moment, Harry felt capable of doing so many things, and wished for the sensation to last forever.

A few minutes later, they got up and headed home.

_Mum will never forget_

_the path_

_towards the swing where_

_oblivion blows me_

_towards the stone swing_

_where I lie,_

_crushed,_

_like a dwarf,_

_the little child,_

_the desperate bastard in whom_

_mum had placed her hopes._

fin

Post-scriptum (the insufferable bonus section, or the part when Meddie realizes that even when it's over, it doesn't really end):

_They're feeding each other toast and butter._

_Looks like _I_ won another bet, Nev. Now tell me: who's the best?_

_Tssk. I don't mind. It's not like I've lost something here. Suzie…_

_Mmm… hum…mmm… maybe next time we should place the bet on Trevor, now – mm…- how does that sound?_

_But there's no point in that. Susan, he's practically yours anyway_.

And Lavender liked November days. There was a fitting glow to some of the people she knew, one that appeared to warm things up in the foggy weather.

The poetry fragments have been taken from the works of Marius Ianus (contemporary Romanian poet), volume "Ursul din containar", and translated into English.

The only thing that belongs to me (Meddie) is the storyline; the rest is property of JKRowlings.

My beta, Anamarie, had a great contribution to the making of this story. I'm very grateful to her for that!

Feedback would be much appreciated :)


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